


Firsts

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Series: The Young Ones - Love & Mobsters [4]
Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Drugs, Explicit Language, F/M, Firsts, Funny, Gen, Het, Het and Slash, M/M, Multi, Partying, Prostitution, Slash, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeline: September 1984-December 1984</p><p>There's a first time for everything. A series of ficlets detailing the first six months of The Business, and the boys' news lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been author-edited for typos and grammar, but has NOT been beta'd!

**Edible**

Neil reached into the oven to turn the pan. This batch was promising; the last few had been a series of decreasingly bad disappointments, and he was finally onto something with this one. Creation of edibles had been more difficult than anticipated, especially considering the only thing he knew how to cook with surety was lentils. He was nearly sure he had it this time, but he'd have to test it to know.

His first experiment, a weed-lentil casserole, was both thoroughly awful and sadly non-potent. All it left one with was a sense of regret and a slight headache. So he'd gone back to the drawing board, testing out better strands, purchasing better quality lentils, getting advice from friends on which edibles seemed to work the best.

That work led to his second attempt, lentils in a cannabis butter. This was significantly more potent, but so incredibly disgusting that it was impossible to choke down long enough to enjoy the effects. Depressed, but not discouraged, he tried again. His friends suggested sweet rather than savory, perhaps that would encourage one to actually eat the thing.

Neil had never been much of a baker. The lentil cookies were a resounding failure (though they made lovely coasters), as were the lentil brownies, and the less said about the lentil angel-food cake, the better. But while growing, he'd stumbled upon a cross that was unlike any he'd tried before. One puff of the stuff would send you out of your mind for hours; it was practically dissociative. He was sure if he could just fit it into something that would stick, he'd have a winner.

The oven timer dinged and he removed the pan and let his creation cool. When it was cool enough, he cut and removed a square of gooey, green mess. It looked rather like a square of alfalfa covered in about an inch of snail slime. It smelled rather similar. But he felt he must test it – for science. He took a bite.

It was the worst thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He was pretty sure if the word "horrific" had a flavor, this was it. It was rather like dipping a full, wet ashtray into a pile of compost and licking the result. But he managed to force the bite down, and not even a minute afterward, it kicked in.

At least, he thought it must have kicked in, considering he was currently sitting in the 17th century sitting-room of a French noblewoman, drinking tea and feeling very chill about it. Very chill indeed. It seemed he and the nice young lady currently offering him finger sandwiches had been smoking up all afternoon – that was certainly what it felt like. It was only when the finger sandwich he was holding began crawling away of its own accord that he decided with certainty he must be hallucinating. This struck him as hilariously funny, and he and the noblewoman laughed the afternoon away. He had a very intriguing conversation with her, about the French monarchy and Led Zeppelin and the way roommates always seem to quite literally kick you when you're down. When the sitting-room melted away, and he was sitting at the dingy kitchen table once more, he was rather disappointed, though he was still so baked he felt only the slightest twinge of regret, having never asked the lady's name.

He looked down and saw he had indeed taken only one bite of his concoction. He knew he had a winner – disgusting as it looked, smelled and tasted, the high was undeniably awesome.

He would call it "Hash-Lentil Upside-Down Cake" and it would become the first and greatest bestseller of his dealing career, rocketing him to the second top-earner in the house, just before Vyvyan (and not counting Mike, who of course, never counted). To this day, if you stop a London hippie on the street and ask them to name the greatest edible of all time, they'll tell you, "Neil's HLUD Cake, no question – just don't think about the taste."

****

**Insight**

When Rick opened his eyes, he was met with Vyvyan's. He was so drowsy, he didn't notice it at first.

"Good morning," he drawled lazily, scrubbing his eyes and blinking.

"Morning," Vyvyan cleared his throat and got up quickly, as if he were embarrassed. He started fishing for his clothes.

Rick woke up a little more. What did he have to be embarrassed about? They'd been sleeping together for weeks now, they had few secrets left, at least in the physical department. And Rick was very used to Vyvyan's presence first thing in the morning – it was becoming a near-daily phenomenon.

But there was something odd, just as he was waking up. The expression on Vyvyan's face had been…strange. Unfamiliar. Almost…affectionate…

Rick sat up, wide-eyed and smirking, "You were watching me sleep!"

"No I wasn't."

"What were you looking at then?"

"I was considering the best angle for a lobotomy."

"Whatever you want to tell yourself, Vyvyan, you can't deny it."

"Shut up, Prick."

He pulled his boots on and avoided Rick's eyes. He grabbed his vest off the floor and stood up as he put it on, clearing his throat.

"I just like you better when you're quiet is all."

"You _like_ me!"

"That's _not_ what I said."

"You did! You said you like me better-"

"I meant I dislike you less," Vyvyan held up a cautionary hand, "Don't read into it."

It was far too late for that. Rick smiled dreamily and mooned up at the ceiling, leaning against the wall, "Hmm? Oh, right. Whatever."

Vyvyan rolled his eyes and left shaking his head, laughing to himself just a little, "Stupid."

Rick ignored him. He had never considered that Vyvyan might have a softer side. His prejudices and self-absorption had allowed him to ignore the affinity for animals, the tendency to dress Rick's wounds if he drew blood, the way he talked a big talk about murder and psychopathy, yet seemed to actually care just as much about his fellow man as Rick did (if Rick was being honest with himself, Vyv seemed to care just a bit more, actually). And after all, Vyvyan kissed first. Vyvyan still kissed first, he was still instigating a month on, and more than that:

_Rick tries to get up and can't._

_"Mm-mm." Vyvyan is wrapped around him tightly, and he's not letting go. Rick struggles._

_"Vyv, I've got a meeting."_

_"Meeting's cancelled, I'm comfortable." He squeezes tighter and sighs in satisfaction._

_Rick gives up. The Collective will have to do without him. Cuddling with Vyvyan is better than debating what useless thing to inconvenience next with a bunch of kids anyway. He can bring down Thatcher's Britain tomorrow; right now, he couldn't escape if he tried, and he's comfortable too…_

Vyvyan liked to cuddle, even demanded it much of the time. He tended to treat Rick rather like a teddy bear he could get off with.

After Rick reflected on it, it seemed Vyvyan could be downright _sentimental_. He grinned. That little tidbit would be fun to give him hell over _and_ reap the benefits of.

The next time he and Vyvyan were alone he found himself noticing each touch and look and caress in a whole new light. He saw things he hadn't before.

Even after a day of brawls and yelling and breaking furniture over roommates' heads, once Vyvyan was in the mood, his touch wasn't reserved to wild and frenzied and rough; it was also gentle and patient, even tender. Sure, the hand at Rick's ribs still squeezed a bit too tightly, but the other stroked his cheek as if it were made of glass. The same hand that reached for his, mid-coitus, and hung on, _clung_ to him, long afterward.

Vyvyan wasn't just fucking him. Vyvyan was enjoying him. Reveling in him. Vyvyan _loved_ doing this. Rick had never considered it before, but for the first time, he understood this Thing they had was somehow _important_ to Vyvyan.

He decided not to give him hell over it after all – he might stop.

****

**Fix-up**

They were only just finishing tea when the frantic knock came at the door. It was so frantic, Neil hadn't wanted to answer it at first, afraid of what he might find when he opened the door. When he did, he couldn't see anyone at first – then he noticed the man at his feet. The one who left him on the stoop must have escaped. Neil thought he'd better get the man inside – whoever had shot him was probably still chasing him.

"Vyvyan!" he called, as he dragged the man over the threshold, "I think you've got a job!"

The bloke at the door didn't look too bad. A little blood, a little pale, a bit whingey. It was only a bullet wound, nothing to cry about - and from the looks of him, nothing he hadn't had before. But he was looking a bit faint, so Vyvyan dragged him inside to see what he could do. He tossed the bloke onto the sofa and had a look. Someone had obviously shot at his back - and very nearly hit it. The bullet was deep into the back of his arm. Could have been a lot worse; it hadn't hit any critical points. 'He could have walked through the bloody door. Lazy bugger should just dig it out himself if he wants it out so badly,' he thought, but he was getting experience and potential repeat business out of this, so he shrugged and headed upstairs to get his bag. The bloke grabbed his arm before he could get far and he looked back in annoyance.

"Whole fucking arm's on fire. How bad is it?"

Vyvyan considered him for a moment. The truth was, it really wasn't bad at all. He could simply leave the bullet in there, bandage it up, give him some antibiotics and the thing would heal over within a matter of days. Might even throw in some painkillers if he was feeling charitable. He wasn't feeling charitable. Wasn't even getting paid for this one, thanks to Mike's daft, "first one's free" policy. There went £500 down the drain, more if he had to do anything difficult. Might as well have some fun.

"You're lucky you got here when you did - you'd be dead of blood loss in a matter of minutes. We'll have to see what sort of bullet it was, did you get a look at the gun?" The mook shook his head, all remaining color draining from his face. Vyvyan leaned in and tried not to grin. "That burn in your arm - might be the bullet. D'ya know unsavory types have started poisoning bullets? Even the pigs. Fellow came in here last week, never left. Cyanide. Does nasty things when you mix it with lead. Had to bury him in the garden, poor bastard. I'll just get my equipment, see if we can't get that out of there before it can go to work. You let me know if your face starts going numb."

It was all he could do not to laugh as he headed up the stairs.

He rooted around his room for his black bag, and ensured he had a pair of tweezers. He gathered together the other things he'd need - gauze, alcohol, sutures, antibiotics - and realized he had barely enough to do the job at all. He'd been regularly pilfering things here and there from the supply cabinets at school, but it was apparent to him, looking at his supplies at the moment, that he was going to have to come to a better system. He made a mental note to speak to Mike about finding a supplier, and wondered how much that was going to cost him out of his weekly pay. Then he realized he could probably talk Mike into taking it out of Rick and Neil's instead and felt much better. _Then_ he realized he could probably up the price of his services to offset the cost, and felt better still.

He came back down the stairs, and the silly bastard was still whimpering, listing on the sofa like he was barely conscious. He got the impression this gent was not particularly strong-willed. No matter, it would be over with soon enough, and then he could get the whinging, blood-covered goon off his sofa and get back to his day.

"Right," he said cheerfully, setting his things down on the coffee table, "Up with the sleeve then."

The job barely took any time. Before he knew it, he was sewing the whingey git up, dabbing some antiseptic cream on the wound, wrapping it up, handing him a bottle of antibiotics and sending him on his way. At least, he expected that to be the case. The whingey git was determined to argue.

"Can't I get some sort of painkiller or something?"

Vyvyan rolled his eyes, "All _right_ , fine, hang on a moment."

He stomped back upstairs, eyed the shelf in his room holding various purloined medications, grabbed a bottle and headed back downstairs. He tossed it to the whingey git. The whingey git eyed it suspiciously.

"Hy-dro-co-done. What's that?"

"Vicodin," Vyvyan said, scrubbing the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink.

The whingey git squinted at the label.

"Margaret…Atwood…hang on, _the_ Margaret Atwood?"

Vyvyan stared at him, "Of course not _the_ Margaret Atwood, why would it be _the_ Margaret Atwood?"

"Well, it's what it says on the-"

"Well it belonged to _somebody_ , didn't it? I'd suspect it belonged to _a_ Margaret Atwood."

"Don't you know? Where did it come from?"

Vyvyan dried his hands, "Nursing home. Friend of mine cleans the place, and nicks the medication from the rooms of old people who've snuffed it before the powers that be can dispose of it properly. Don't worry, it isn't expired or anything. Says so right on the label."

The whingey git held the bottle like it was poison and stood. Good, he was leaving. He muttered a begrudging thanks and wandered out the door. Vyvyan regretted the "first one's free" policy more than ever, and considered asking Mike to amend the contract. He supposed he'd better get a few more under his belt first.

He considered things as he cleaned up a bit. Well, that hadn't gone too badly, had it? The setup was a bit amateur, however, just out in the middle of the sitting room like that. What if Neil had come up to watch telly, or Rick had interrupted him for some frivolous thing or other? What if the bloke had been unconscious, or needed major surgery? He should probably dedicate a room to it, he thought; probably his own. It could work - much more privacy, all of his supplies were up there already, and he didn't actually use his bed all that much anymore. He could call it the Medical Lab - all official and everything - when he wasn't calling it his bedroom.

He only hoped he hadn't scared the whingey git out of telling his whingey git friends about his services. He shrugged - he supposed he'd find out soon enough.

Two weeks later, the whingey git was back, _with_ one of his whingey git friends - £500 a head, not bad at all, and other than the work, all he had to do was give them a lecture on how to stop getting themselves shot once a fortnight. Well, be fair, some of his advice might actually have encouraged their getting shot. Good for business, and all that.

****

**Job**

Rick was watching telly when Mike came downstairs and loomed over him, as much as a man of Mike's stature could loom. Rick felt someone standing behind him and jumped out of his skin when he finally glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh," he said, trying to sound casual and not at all like his heart was currently trying to make its way out of his chest via his throat, "Hi Mike, didn't see you there."

"Startle you, did I?" Mike came around to the front of the sofa and sat down.

"Oh no, no, not at all," Rick said, though his voice wavered.

"Look Rick, I've got to talk to you," he leaned in, and Rick did the same. This sounded important, "There's something very important I need done, and only you can do it."

Rick's heart, having just calmed down, raced anew. A job! Mike was giving him a _job_! He'd never had a job before. He was about to become an official part of The Business. Mike might even start paying him more than his weekly £20 allowance. He nodded, and tried not to look as excited as he felt.

"I need you," Mike said, looking at him over the top of his sunglasses, "To go down to the corner store…and get me…a packet of crisps."

Rick's heart sank. That was it? Honestly?

"Now don't misunderstand me, not just _any_ bag of crisps. You've got to get me a packet of onion and curry flavored crisps…in the _blue_ bag. Now that's very important, you'll want to write that down, they're the ones in the _blue bag_. Take this fiver, head down there and come right back. Don't speak to anyone about this, it's very, very important. The future of The Business may depend on it. And bring me the change, you hear me? This isn't a charity."

Mike had to be having him on. This was ridiculous. But he found himself nodding solemnly as he took the fiver from Mike and put it in his pocket.

"All right," he heard himself say, "I suppose…I'll be right back."

"You do that," Mike said sternly, and headed back upstairs.

Rick sat on the sofa in shock for a few moments after Mike left. What was his game? What was the angle? There had to be some sort of catch to this. This was a test. He was sure of it - this was a _test_. He had to get it right.

He drifted out the door and down the street, lost in thought. Onion and curry flavored crisps…in the _blue_ bag. It had to be some sort of code. What if there wasn't a blue bag? What if they were only curry flavored, with no onion? No, it had to be a code. But what? What was he supposed to do? The shopkeeper. He had to be in on it. That must be the angle. He should go to the shopkeeper and tell him, and then get some sort of message in return. Maybe he'd be picking up some kind of package? He'd know when he got there.

He was there. He took a deep breath and walked inside. The corner store was rather tiny, and only ever had the one man working behind the counter. Rick marched right up to him and said, "I'm looking for _onion and curry flavored crisps…in the blue bag._ " He winked a few times, hoping the clerk would understand.

The man blinked and frowned at him a moment and finally said, "Ah yeah, that'll be the Cottage House brand. Sorry, we're actually fresh out - but we've got their _lime_ and curry crisps…it's the yellow packet just behind you, if you're interested."

Rick gave a little jump and looked behind him. There was indeed a bag of said crisps sitting right there. This had to be it. This had to be the code! There was probably contraband inside. He was probably doing a pickup of some kind. Drugs, perhaps, or the location of some sort of secret document. He gingerly picked up the bag and turned back to the man.

"Yes," he said knowingly, "I'll take _these_." He winked again, and glanced up at the security camera. This was brilliant - it would just look like he was buying a regular packet of crisps. They'd thought of everything! He gave the man the fiver, and the man made the exchange, gave him change just like he normally would - what a great cover! And the man behind the counter was such a good actor, he had a perfect poker face. He even looked a little confused!

Rick made his way back home, strutting confidently, but being careful not to swing the "crisps" too much - whatever was inside could be explosive or something. He wondered how they even got it in there, it seemed sealed up just right. Probably had a man on the inside of the factory. Just brilliant. Mike was going to be so proud. This would be the beginning. This would be when he'd finally get the respect he deserved. They'd all start looking up to him once Mike started giving _him_ the important assignments. They'd have to - he'd make sure of it. If he was head honcho, he'd make certain they knew. Maybe even make them kneel. He couldn't wait to see the look on Vyvyan's face when he found out he'd been usurped by his own…whatever it was they were to each other. No matter, he'd be calling the shots soon enough, and then _he'd_ be the one making _Vyvyan_ feel all confused and awkward and never quite sure where they stood. He'd show him. He'd show them all. He strode back into the house and right up to Mike, who was reading his paper at the table.

"There you are, Mike," Rick said, setting the bag down carefully on the table. Mike looked up from his paper. He looked at the bag. He looked at Rick. He looked back at the bag. He looked back at Rick. He picked up the bag and turned it over in his hands. Rick beamed, awaiting his praise.

"…That was a test, Rick," Mike said. Rick nodded sagely.

"I _know_. I figured that out," he said proudly.

Mike nodded, and looked up at him over his sunglasses.

"You failed."

"WHAT!?"

Mike opened the bag and popped a crisp into his mouth.

"Wanted to see if you could follow simple instructions," he said around the crisp, "Apparently not."

Rick gaped, "But…but…it had to be a code! The way you were talking, emphasizing things…"

"Didn't want you to forget. You're not the sharpest icepick in the hotel, you know."

Rick glowered, "You said it was _important!_ You said the _future of The Business_ could depend on it!"

"I know," he said, taking another crisp out of the bag, "I was hungry. Can't have a criminal enterprise run by a man with an empty stomach, can we? My blood sugar could get low, make all sorts of bad decisions. Now, these aren't half bad, but they're certainly not what I asked for."

"But they were OUT! What was I supposed to do, just turn back around and come home empty-handed?"

Mike shrugged, "Sure, why not? If the plan goes bad, you regroup at headquarters for further assignment. Or simply go somewhere else, it's not as if the off-license next door to the corner store doesn't sell crisps. Either way…poorly done, Rick. Honestly." He got up, and clapped Rick on the shoulder as he headed back upstairs with his packet of crisps, "We'll try again another day."

Rick watched him go, shocked and angry…and defeated. He was beginning to think he didn't quite have what it took to do this sort of work after all. He was actually rather glad no one else had been around to see that. Humiliated, he made his way up to his room, and spent the rest of the afternoon writing poems about sneaky, underhanded mobsters who refuse to give brilliant artists the respect they deserve.

****

**Benefits**

Mike stepped through the door, and no one paid him any mind. But he didn't close it behind him, kicking it closed without turning around, like always. No, this time he held it open…and made a little bow, gesturing inside.

That got their attention.

They watched as someone else came through the door after him. Someone tall, and blond, and dressed to the nines. Someone _female_. She smiled at Mike as she passed him, and then smiled at the other three as they stared at her, open-mouthed and speechless.

Mike had brought an _actual girl_ home. And she wasn't batting at him with her handbag or being drug in by the wrists. She came in of her own accord and seemed _happy to be there._

He beamed at them as he closed the door behind her. He continued beaming as he led her over to the table and brushed off a chair for her to sit in.

"Gentlemen," he'd never sounded prouder, "This is Candi, and she's just as sweet as she sounds."

She giggled and gave them a little wave.

They didn't respond. Their shock was palpable. After a very long and awkward pause, the three snapped back to themselves, leapt away from the table, and got into a huddle over by the garden door.

"It's a _girl_ ," Neil whispered, "She's like, really a girl!"

"We don't know _that_ ," Vyvyan whispered, "We haven't seen her with her knickers off."

"Don't be transphobic, Vyvyan," Rick whispered and Vyvyan scowled at him.

"That isn't even a word," Vyvyan whispered, "And don't be a hypocrite. You called that girl down at the market a 'terrifying she-male' last week."

"The one with the enormous hands?" Neil whispered, "I don't think she is, I think she's just giant and rude."

"Anyway," Vyvyan tried to steer the conversation back to something resembling a point, "What is she doing here? She seems perfectly content! She isn't screaming or running away - she isn't even frowning. That's not the behavior I'd expect from a woman interacting with Mike for more than five minutes. Are we sure Mike's spoken to her?"

"He seems to have," Rick said, "He knows her name."

"There's no way that's her real name," said Neil.

Vyvyan nodded, "Nobody names their baby Candi, they might as well name her 'fated to be a stripper' and be done with it."

"She must be a prostitute," Neil said.

"How could she be a prostitute?" Rick said, glancing over at her and away again. She and Mike were talking and smiling, "At least one willing to bother with Mike? She's got all her teeth and she looks so _clean_. And those clothes are expensive!"

"Escort then," Vyvyan said, "But how could he afford it?"

"Gentlemen," Mike called over to them, and the three jumped as if they'd been shocked, "If you've finished conferring, I believe I can explain. Come along and have a seat. No need to be rude to our guest, after all."

They made their way, with trepidation, back to the table and sat down. Well, Neil and Vyvyan sat down. With Mike and Candi at the table, there were no more chairs for Rick. He looked around awkwardly and finally leaned against the counter, just as awkwardly. Mike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a very large bundle of money, dropping it onto the table with a thud. Then he crossed his arms proudly and sat back in his chair, grinning at them all like a child who'd just brought home an A paper.

Vyvyan grabbed the bundle and thumbed through it. He looked up in shock.

"These…these are fifties. There's got to be…" he thought for a moment, eyeing the stack and trying to do the math in his head. He thought a little longer, then finally guessed, "there's got to be over £500 here."

"Multiply that by two, Vyv. Then multiply _that_ by ten."

Vyvyan dropped the stack and went pale. The other two did the math and, when they came to the answer, went pale as well. Candi giggled.

The three sat in stunned silence while they allowed it to sink in. £10,000. Just sitting there. In their kitchen.

"How?" Vyvyan said, distantly, staring at the money as though it weren't quite there.

"A single job, gents. Done by myself, _for_ myself. One lonely, stupid, madly rich old woman…and me. And who do you suppose was the victor?"

"I dunno," Neil said, "Who _is_ Victor?"

Mike shot him a look and went back to his gloating, "I told you I was good. Didn't I say I was good? And what's more, this is what's left, after Balowski's cut. All of it, all ours. This is only the beginning, gentlemen. This is what we have to look forward to. This…" he gestured to the money, "and _this_ ," he squeezed Candi's thigh and grinned at her, and she giggled again and grinned right back.

"Can you show me your room now?" she said, and she actually sounded interested, "I've been looking forward to seeing that _big_ bed!"

Mike wagged his eyebrows at them, collected up his money, and led Candi toward the stairs.

"Don't wait up, boys," he called behind him, just as he turned the corner. Then he popped his head back around the corner, "Actually don't come upstairs for a couple of hours either, yeah?" Then he was gone.

The other three looked at each other.

"Escort," they all said in unison, nodding in surety.

"Well, good for him!" Neil said.

"No good for us," Vyvyan said, "There's no chance we see one penny of that money."

"Well he can't keep _all_ of it," Rick said, "he already showed it to us, and if he knows we know, he can't keep it from us forever."

But they all knew he could. And aside from a one-time £100 bonus in their weekly pay (which for Rick, amounted to £100 that week), he did.

****

**PDA**

The four sat in front of the television, enjoying Bastard Squad in their apathetic way, as always. Mike, Vyvyan and Rick shared the sofa, while Neil was relegated to the rickety chair, as was increasingly the case of late. Whether the four realized it or not, a small shift in hierarchy had taken place. Before, whenever there wasn't room for all of them, Neil almost always got the sofa. But now, Vyvyan had started taking measures to ensure Rick a spot. He'd sprawl out on the sofa next to Mike and conveniently shift over just before Rick got there. He'd find things for Neil to do moments before the show began, so he'd be away from the sofa long enough for Rick to steal his seat. He'd even gone so far as to outright order Neil to the chair and not take 'no' for an answer.

As a consequence, Rick had recently taken to calling the rickety chair "the hippie chair" in a move Vyvyan called "brilliant" and Neil called "totally uncool and heavy."

Vyvyan shifted, attempting to get more comfortable, and he turned in toward Rick just a bit more, so their arms touched. Rick immediately tried to pull his hand from between them, but Vyvyan caught him by the fingers and pulled his hand back down, out of sight of the others. Rick shot him a surprised and fearful glance, but Vyvyan was just watching telly with a perfect, bored poker face. Rick's eyes returned to the screen, and he tried to act natural. He felt Vyvyan's fingers intertwine with his own, their palms pressed together. He went warm all over. A rush of excitement at the danger of the moment danced in his stomach. They could get _caught._ They were holding hands in _public_. This had never happened before.

He had to stop himself from beaming.

Holding hands – just _holding hands_ with Vyvyan, was amazing. Rick had never really thought about it before. He'd held hands with a girl once. It wasn't anything spectacular, mostly just sweaty and awkward and uncomfortable. He was glad when it was over. This was nothing like that. This was an invisible thread connecting them together, electrifying his arm and making his pulse race. He wanted to get closer. He decided to lean on a tool that had been reliable in the days before the Thing With Vyvyan; he pretended to fall asleep on Vyvyan's shoulder.

He played it as normal; nodded his head for just the right amount of time, lay back against the sofa and just allowed his head to _happen_ to loll towards Vyvyan. After a sufficient amount of time, he took a deep breath and nuzzled in, sighing in that, "Oh, don't mind me, I'm quite asleep," sort of way. Vyvyan grunted indignantly, as he often did in this situation, but he also squeezed tighter onto Rick's hand. It was all Rick could do to keep from wrapping himself around Vyvyan completely and going to sleep for real.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up again. Apparently he _had_ gone to sleep for real. He lifted his head and looked around. The telly was off, Mike and Neil were gone, the room was dark, and he was curled up on the sofa, snuggled into the side of a sleeping - and snoring - Vyvyan. The snoring had woken him up. He sat up a bit and something tugged at his arm - they were still holding hands. Rick smiled, his heart warmed, the romantic in him did a little internal dance, and then his eyes fell on the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. That reminded him of something…what was it? Oh yes. Oh! Yes!

He shook Vyvyan's shoulder, "Vyv - Vyv get up!"

Vyvyan's snore turned into a snort as he jolted awake.

"What? What? Stop shaking, I'm up, I'm up," he said, but in a sleepy sort of way that said he was about to go right back to sleep. As if to illustrate that point, his head lolled toward Rick's shoulder as though they were about to trade places. Rick shook harder.

"VYVYAN WAKE UP!"

"FINE! GOD!" Vyvyan was awake now, certainly, and he looked incredibly grumpy about it, "What do you want?"

"You're late - you were supposed to be bouncing at The Crimson half an hour ago."

"FUCK!" Vyvyan jumped to his feet, neglecting to notice that he was still reflexively holding Rick's hand, rather tightly, and making Rick fall off the sofa as he did so. He let go and flexed his hand - unlike him, it was still quite asleep. He looked at the clock, swayed at the head-rush from jumping to his feet moments after being fast asleep for over an hour, righted himself, and bolted out the door without another word. Rick watched him go, smiling, sitting on the floor and leaning against the sofa. He heard Vyvyan's car start.

That went well. He was really quite satisfied with himself. Truth was, Vyvyan's gig started at nine, but he'd been too sleepy to read the clock properly. Rick thought he would notice as soon as he looked at it, but he hadn't, and that made it all the better. Rick had finally managed to prank _him_ successfully, even if it was only a little one. He stood, dusted himself off, and hummed to himself a bit as he made his way toward the stairs.

Vyvyan came back inside, knocked Rick forward by cuffing him in the back of the head, knocked him backward off his feet by kicking his legs out from under him, and rushed back out the door.

Rick lay dazed at the foot of the stairs. He'd forgot about the clock in Vyvyan's car. Ah well, it was still worth it, and at least Vyvyan wouldn't _really_ be late now. That meant he might be in a good mood when he got home. All the better for Rick; he had much more than hand-holding in mind.

****

**Party**

Tonight was the night. Mike had paid off the pigs, many of them already in Balowski's pockets, ensuring them an interruption-free evening. Balowski had supplied the staff - the less overhead, the better, especially considering how much of this was going straight back into the faux-ruskie's pockets. Vyvyan had his orders - pickpocket everyone he thought he could get away with. Neil had his - sell as much weed, coke, ecstasy and hallucinogens as he possibly could. Rick had his - just…stay out of the way and try not to ruin anything.

Tonight was the night they would throw a party for pay.

It was Mike's idea, inspired by the fliers for warehouse and free parties he'd seen appearing more and more frequently on London's lampposts and telephone poles. Some genius had come up with the idea of charging the youth of London £5 a head for the privilege of dancing, taking drugs and drinking. Mike would further that - his party-goers would be paying for the privilege to spend even more money _purchasing_ their drugs and alcohol, from him. They were going to overcharge for the alcohol, obviously, and the bartender would be encouraged to water down the drinks. This, if Mike's previous experience with nightclubs had taught him anything, would not even slow down the number of drink orders in a night. They would play music appealing to all subcultures, ensuring a diverse, and more importantly large, crowd. He had dubbed the one-night-nightclub " _Chez Mike's_ ", and he was going to make a bloody fortune.

They'd been advertising for days, covertly, just like the parties Mike had been inspired by. Vyvyan had told all of his friends and encouraged them to tell others. Rick had drummed up support among the Collective - there would be vegetarian appetizers, he promised, and he assured them all the alcohol would be 100% cruelty-free. Neil's friends had already made plans to gather in the garden and have a drumming circle under the full moon - and help Neil sell his, and their own, drugs.

They'd cleared most of the furniture out of the sitting and dining rooms, with only the sofa left, pushed off to one side. All the lads would be locking their bedroom doors - patrons would have free-reign of the house after all. The bartender had set up at a makeshift bar in the kitchen, the DJ had a little booth over in a corner, and the bouncer was huge and terrifying - he'd already made friends with Vyvyan. Everything was set.

They hoped to hell somebody would show up.

~~~~

Three hours in, the party was, in fact, raging! It had trickled together at first, and for the first hour, Mike had worried that he was going to be humiliated in front of his boss' employees. But then a large group of Vyvyan's, Neil's _and_ Rick's friends had all shown up at once, and everyone seemed more than willing to pay for whatever _Chez Mike's_ had to offer. Cliques had formed, talk was loud and animated, the music was well received, the drinks were flowing and Neil and his friends were struggling to keep up with demand for their wares.

Rick was in the kitchen, arguing with the bartender.

"Look, all I want is a lager, just one lager, it's very simple!"

"And that'll be a tenner," the bartender was patient and calm, and it was driving Rick mad.

"You don't seem to understand. I _live here_! This is _my house_ , you see, and it's therefore _my party_ and you should therefore be able to _give_ me a lager. Understand?"

"And I'd be happy to - as soon as _you_ give _me_ a tenner."

"Look! It's MY HOUSE! I've got to be on the list! The name's Rick! _RICK!_ "

"Haven't got a list. Only got orders to charge every person who approaches me for a drink a tenner for lagers, fifteen for mixed drinks, and twenty for the specials."

"Listen you half-witted goon, I've half a mind to-"

Vyvyan appeared out of nowhere and flashed the bartender a smile.

"All right, Gene? Could I get a couple of lagers?"

Gene smiled back at him, "Certainly Vyv, there you are!" He handed them to him without another word, and after shoving one of them into Rick's hands, Vyvyan walked away whistling while Rick stared after him in shock.

~~~~

An hour later, Rick was passed out in a corner, Vyvyan and his friends were drinking motor oil out of a beer bong, Mike was chatting up attractive young ladies for whole minutes at a time, and Neil was…rather bored, actually. He'd sold out of his wares half an hour ago, the drumming circle had been overcome with emotion, and acid, and now were not so much drumming as leaning on each other and imagining the idea of drumming, he'd smoked as much weed as he could without becoming paranoid enough to march right down to the police station and turn himself in, and he was simply…out of things to do. He was sitting glumly on the sofa, next to a pair of snogging metalheads who kept bumping into him without so much as an "excuse me" - no one had any manners anymore, did they? He sighed. At this point, he might as well head back down to the cellar and tend to his plants. It'd be more interesting than this.

He stood up to do just that, when he noticed her, across the room; a girl, with long, chestnut brown hair cascading over her peasant-bloused shoulders, hanging down to the top hem of her flowing skirt. He'd never seen her before. She was talking to Summer and Shadowfax, and when he'd stood, Summer had pointed over to him, and she'd looked over and smiled. Then she _started approaching him_. He froze. She reached him and smiled wider.

"Hi," she said, "You're Neil, right?"

Neil nodded. She was gorgeous. He'd spoken to plenty of his female friends before, but it was different - they were sisters of the earth…and entirely uninterested in him. But this girl was new, he wasn't used to her at all. His voice stuck in his throat. She flipped some of her hair over her shoulder and he caught a whiff. It didn't smell like patchouli - it smelled like lavender, and it was _lovely_.

"I'm Meadowlark," she said, and stuck out a hand to shake. He took it without taking his eyes off her or changing his gobsmacked expression, "I'm Summer's friend, we're in the same organic pottery group."

"Oh," he managed to say.

"I…I'm actually a bit nervous to meet you, to be honest." As if to prove it, she blushed, "I'm a huge fan of your work."

His expression shifted from shock to confusion.

"Oh, your edibles, I mean. I've tried your HLUD cake - it's magnificent!"

He managed a small smile, "Oh. Thanks!"

"I mean, it tastes like the undercarriage of a lorry driver, but the high - spectacular!"

Neil nodded, feeling a bit more confident in his ability to speak without speaking entirely in gibberish, "Yeah, I never really got the taste down, but once I'd tried the high, I knew it was love at first bite." Well damn, that'd come out as nearly gibberish anyway. He hadn't even intended the pun.

She surprised him by laughing, not a polite giggle, but an actual laugh. It didn't seem as though she was laughing _at_ him, either. It appeared, he'd just made somewhat of a joke, and it appeared, more surprisingly, she found it funny.

"That's not a bad way of putting it, tell the truth," she said, and looked down. "Oh!"

Neil looked down as well and saw they'd never stopped shaking hands. They separated quickly, and the two of them stood in awkward silence for a few moments, looking just about anywhere but at each other. He realized she was acting just as nervous as he was - she really wasn't lying about her nerves, was she? He got up some courage.

"Hey, d'you want to maybe go out into the garden? The drumming circle's sort-of died down, but it's actually a pretty lovely night, and it's quiet enough out there we could maybe…have…a…chat…" He felt incredibly foolish and drifted off, but she didn't look annoyed, or even disinterested. Actually, her eyes lit up and she smiled again.

"Sure! Let's do that!" She said, nodding. Hesitantly, she took his hand, and he grasped hers back reassuringly. They walked off to the garden hand in hand, and had quite a lovely chat indeed. A chat which ended in Meadowlark kissing him rather thoroughly, and Neil kissing her right back. Several times.

"Hey," she said, when they'd disengaged for long enough to speak, "Summer tells me your star chart is really well made. Can I see it?"

Neil looked confused at the change in subject for a moment before he got it.

"Oh! Yeah, yeah…it's just…up in my room, right?"

Meadowlark smiled seductively at him, "Let's go, then."

As Neil led her upstairs, he realized he'd just landed himself a groupie. Well, he could certainly get used to that. He grinned wide as he opened his bedroom door. If all the parties were going to be like _this_ , he was _really_ going to enjoy them.

****

**Constellation**

Out in the garden, at the very back near the fence separating the property from the dead-end alley behind it, sat an oft-ignored concrete slab, rising about three feet out of the dirt. The block appeared to have once been a bomb shelter, door long since paved over, entry stairs long since filled in. Nobody in the house paid it any mind. Except sometimes, on clear nights, Rick would go out and sprawl himself across it, flat on his back, and stay like that for hours. He'd done it often, the entire time they'd lived in the house. He was doing it now.

Vyvyan watched Rick through the kitchen window, Rick's spindly limbs splayed along the concrete, eyes glued to the sky. He knew what Rick was doing, he'd bragged about it enough times to no one in particular. But he'd started doing it much more often lately, and quite frankly, Vyvyan was getting a bit concerned about him. Sometimes he'd stay out there nearly all night, it was only a matter of time before he got himself sick.

And besides, Vyvyan had never done it before; he wanted to see what it was like. He opened the garden door, and went out to join him.

Rick didn't even look in Vyvyan's direction as he approached – for a moment, it seemed he didn't even notice when Vyvyan sat beside him, then lay down, hands behind his head. Then Rick scooted toward him, almost imperceptibly, and Vyvyan relaxed and looked up at the stars.

The sky was more black than anything else, and he couldn't figure out why this was supposedly so interesting. He'd heard you could see more stars in the countryside, but he'd never been, so he couldn't say for certain. Still, a few pinpoints of light speckled the sky, and he supposed that was interesting enough, if you squinted.

"How can you tell which ones go together?" he said, and found that the quiet in the garden was encouraging him to keep his voice down.

Rick shrugged, "I've looked them up, I know a lot about them."

"Prove it."

Rick pointed, "Look over there, do you see? What does that look like to you?"

Vyvyan followed his finger and stared at the cluster of stars. "Sort-of an upside-down ladle-y thing."

Rick chuckled and put his arm down, tearing his eyes away from the stars to look at Vyvyan, "That's Ursa Major, the Great Bear."

"It doesn't look anything like a bear," Vyvyan wrinkled his nose at it.

"No, it doesn't really," Rick looked back at it, "That long bit is supposed to be the neck, and the dangly bits are its legs. The Americans call it the Big Dipper."

"That's because it's a big ladle-y thing. They've got it right."

Rick smiled, "Do you want to see a trick? Look at that bit there, along the back legs, er, the right side of the ladle, I suppose. Look at the way those two stars are pointing."

"I'm looking."

"Good. Now hold your fingers so you're measuring the distance between them."

Vyvyan did so, trying not to feel so silly about it. "D'you know you're about seven years old you fairy bastard?"

"Shut _up_ , Vyvyan, just do it."

"I'm doing it! Now what, do I just lie here holding my hand up to the sky like a twat or is there a point?"

"Let me get to it! Keep your fingers apart and count five. Follow the direction the stars are pointing, upwards."

"Why?"

"Just _do_ it, stupid!"

Vyvyan did.

"So?"

"So lower your hand. You see that bright star just there?"

"Yeah."

"That's North. That's Polaris, the North Star. And the start of the handle of Ursa Minor."

"Great, now if I'm ever lost after running far away from you I'll be able to travel the sea."

There was quiet. Vyvyan looked over at Rick. He'd stopped smiling.

"I suppose you think you're funny, then?" Rick didn't sound angry. He sounded sad.

"I know I'm funny, only you've got no sense of humor." He nudged Rick. Rick didn't smile.

"Just don't think it's funny, is all." He was quiet again, for only a few seconds, "I only mean, I'd rather have you around. Nobody else will sleep with me."

"That," Vyvyan propped himself up on one elbow and leaned in, "is a certainty."

The kiss was sweet and comfortable, and sent zings and warm shivers through the pair. When Vyvyan pulled back and opened his eyes, Rick was smiling gently, eyes still closed.

"That's better," Vyvyan said, "You're a little less ugly when you smile."

Rick sat up so quickly he nearly knocked Vyvyan off the concrete, anger shining in his wide open eyes, "Vyvyan! You have absolutely no consideration for the delicate emotions of an artist! I demand that you-"

Vyvyan grinned and took Rick's face in both hands, even as Rick struggled to break free.

"Ah ha ha! You're even _less_ ugly when you're angry!"

The kiss soon quelled Rick's squirming. He relaxed, reached his hand to Vyvyan's cheek. They sank back down to the cool concrete, engrossed in each other.

**_Wednesday, 12 October_ **

_Sleep is lovely, but the stars are for lovers._

_I rather like that. I wonder if I could work it in somewhere? Make a rhyming couplet. Something like:_

_Sleep is lovely, but the stars are for lovers.  
And snogging with Vyvyan under the covers._

_Needs work. Not enough metaphor. Maybe it shouldn't rhyme? I'll come back to it._

****

**New Year**

The sparkly signs and banners declaring the start of 1985 were Mike's idea. "People love a good show," he'd said. But when the time came, no one really seemed to notice. Without them, the scene would be indistinguishable from the last 15 parties they'd already held. The boys had to admit, that idea had been a winner. _Chez Mike's_ was a resounding success, and this New Year's Bash was exceeding expectations - not to mention profits, and building capacity.

Neil and his friends were holding a "Welcoming of the New Year" ceremony in the second floor hallway. The others couldn't really tell what this was supposed to accomplish, other than suffocating everyone with incense and patchouli, nearly drowning out the music with loads of chanting, and preventing everyone else from reaching the bathroom.

Mike was meeting with Balowski and some other business associates down in the cellar, away from the noise of the main gathering. They were discussing business (or rather, Business) for the coming year, and had given strict instructions not to be disturbed. Put a sign on the door and everything. Somehow, the locked cellar door had been opened no fewer than five times in two hours, and eventually Jerzei posted a g-man at the door with strict instructions to shoot the next person to walk through it.

Vyvyan had already made £1500 off that order, and it wasn't even midnight.

It was getting close to midnight, however. Someone switched on the telly for live coverage of the typical "New Year's around the world" business. The hippies were coming downstairs to mingle, uncomfortably, with the rest of the crowd. The punks switched from alcohol to wood glue and paint thinner. The metalheads somehow found a way to headbang to trance music. Nearly everyone was ready for the big moment. Rick hadn't noticed the time.

Over the past few months, due to the exponential increase in the number of parties he'd attended, Rick was learning to hold his liquor. He was developing a definite tolerance, in fact. The last party, he'd had _four lagers_ , and he hadn't even had a hangover in the morning! But it was New Year's Eve, and he'd wanted to really let loose (and frankly, impress Vyvyan). So he'd begun the night by smoking out with Neil's friends, then he'd done two shots of whiskey with a couple of punks and a metalhead, insisted on removing the dance-hall mix tape from the sound system and replacing it with The Best of Cliff Richard, got chased out of the house by a mob of angry party-goers, sulked in the garden for a couple of hours, came back inside, smoked _another_ bowl with three hippies, two punks and the same metalhead, downed three more shots _without_ a chaser, and then tried his hand at dancing, alone, in the middle of the hot, crowded dance floor.

He was currently back in the garden, violently puking his guts out into a bush behind his stargazing spot. (He hadn't been able to get into the bathroom, and had already thrown up on a hippie and _the same metalhead_ , on his way back downstairs.) Whenever he lifted his head between heaves, the entire garden spun wildly around him, and he couldn't get his bearings enough to sit up. So he simply lay prone on the slab and allowed his head to hang off the side. It was working pretty well. He was actually too drunk to be particularly upset about his current predicament, though he was also high enough to be paranoid that if it continued for long, he might puke his _actual_ guts out, and was keeping an eye out for bits of vital organs.

Vyvyan had warned him about "the spins" quite a while ago, but he'd either ignored or dismissed the information, convinced it was useless to him. He was apparently mistaken.

A few more heaves and he thought, having now vomited up everything he'd ever eaten over the past twenty years, he might actually be finished. He rolled onto his back and scooted down so his head would have a nice, cool concrete slab to rest on. He tried to watch the stars, but it only took a couple of rotations of Orion over his head before he decided closing his eyes was probably the better idea. The world continued to spin beneath him, but this was a far less disorienting experience. It felt rather like the times he used to lay in the middle of the little metal merry-go-round on the playground in primary school. Granted, he was usually there because a group of bullies had trapped him on it and were spinning it as fast as they possibly could. But he found if he relaxed and closed his eyes, the experience could be almost pleasant. Meditative, even.

The world's rotation had almost slowed to it's typical 24-hour pace when a violent shake snapped his eyes open. Vyvyan was sitting next to him, holding a full shot glass. He shoved it in Rick's direction and, even lying down, Rick recoiled. Vyvyan shook his head.

"Swish it 'round your mouth and spit it out. _Don't_ swallow it, you've had plenty."

Hesitantly, he raised himself to his elbows. He found that agreeable enough, so he tried sitting up properly, awkwardly crossing his legs and nearly falling over when he tried to fold one under the other. He felt a bit green and shaky, and he had to brace his forearms on his knees to stay upright, but at least the world had finally stopped spinning.

"Why?" he said, once he'd righted himself.

Vyvyan shrugged. "Rinse your mouth out."

His mouth _did_ taste incredibly unpleasant at the moment, now that he mentioned it. He tried to sit up as straight as he could manage, took a deep breath and picked up the shot glass. When the whiskey reached his lips, he thought for a moment that he'd vomit again, but then the feeling passed and he was able to swish somewhat thoroughly and spit, as Vyvyan had suggested. Well, now he tasted whiskey - but at least he could no longer taste bile.

He set down the shot glass and took another deep breath. "Thanks," he said as he let it out.

Vyvyan shrugged. "Don't mention it."

He reached over and stroked Rick's back with a flat palm, soothing and slow. Rick closed his eyes and hummed in approval.

"That's incredible," he said, slurring just a little bit, "Keep doing it."

"Shush," Vyvyan said, but he didn't stop.

Inside, the countdown toward midnight began.

_10!_

_9!_

Rick started to lean in to Vyvyan's shoulder, but Vyvyan stopped him.

_8!_

_7!_

Vyvyan turned Rick's face to meet his instead.

_6!_

_5!_

Rick looked into Vyvyan's eyes, and though they were as guarded as ever, an invisible electricity surged between them and his own.

_4!_

_3!_

Vyvyan closed his eyes and leaned in.

_2!_

_1!_

_HAPPY NEW YEAR!!_

Vyvyan kissed him deep and slow. The hand at his back pulled him closer. The hand at his cheek slid behind his neck and squeezed, just a little too hard. Vyvyan's tongue roved the inside of Rick's mouth, tangling with his own. Rick felt shivers crawl up his spine and a warmth spread through his aching belly. He reached up to Vyvyan, stroking his cheek. He scooted closer without breaking contact, until they were nearly chest to chest, if not for their knees getting in the way of each other. The joyful shouts and noisemaking of the revelers, both from inside, and up and down the street, was somehow muted, sinking into the background. The kiss seemed to last forever, though that might just have been the intense amounts of weed and alcohol. Though his head still swam and he could barely think, his heart sang. How was it that, after nearly four months' time, kissing Vyvyan was still this amazing?

Vyvyan finally pulled away and looked into his eyes once more.

"Wow," Rick said stupidly, and Vyvyan grinned at him.

"Happy new year, you lightweight girly bastard," he said, grin fading to a smirk.

"Happy birthday, Vyvyan," Rick said, and passed out.

Vyvyan rolled his eyes as he caught Rick to prevent his smashing his head into the concrete. He picked Rick up in a fireman's carry as he stood and headed for the garden door. He managed to get upstairs without much notice - the crowd was too large, drunk, and self-absorbed to particularly care. He got Rick into his room and put him to bed, making sure to lay him on his stomach. He started to head for his own room (if there was any more vomit left in Rick, he'd rather not be on the receiving end when it made an appearance), but when he reached the door he paused, turned back around, and came back to Rick's bedside. He sat down and watched him for a moment, stroking his fingertips down the side of Rick's temple. Ah well. At least he'd held out until midnight. Vyvyan had always wondered if it were true - if it was good luck to kiss somebody on the stroke of midnight on New Year's - he'd just never had the chance to test it out before. He leaned in and kissed the spot he'd been stroking.

"Silly, stupid girl," he whispered, "Don't go drinking yourself to death."

He went back to his own room, ignoring the party still raging downstairs, and lay on his bed, thinking of all the ways his luck could improve in the new year. He hoped it involved chainsaws. He liked chainsaws.

**Author's Note:**

> -I took some liberties regarding the notoriety of Margaret Atwood in 1984. She was the first name that came to mind, and I just found it intensely funny that both the mobster and Vyvyan would know who she is.
> 
> -Transphobic is _so_ a word, Vyvyan, though it's doubtful that Rick would have heard it used often before, as it didn't come into popular usage until at least a decade later. This, again, was just too difficult to resist playing with. (Also, in case anyone's wondering, I literally _cringed_ writing the word "she-male" (ugh, just did it again), but that's Rick for you. =\\)
> 
> -Rick's entirely wrong about Ursa Major - the big dipper part of it is only a bit of the bear's back. But leave it to Rick to half understand something and take it in as gospel truth. ;)
> 
> -If you've never had the spins (a disorientation and vertigo typically caused by alternating weed and alcohol in rapid succession), consider yourself lucky. It sucks. A lot.


End file.
